


The Important Parts

by annagarny



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 13,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of chronological moments within Phil and Clint's relationship - the 30 Days of Writing challenge (that I am failing miserably at, considering that I'm lucky to do one of these every couple of days!) All chapter titles are drawn from the 30Days Master Post.</p><p>There will be thirty, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

Clint shouted across the lobby. ”HOLD THE ELEVATOR!” and Phil looked up at him, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. A man in black skinny jeans and a blue t-shirt, a ragged-cuffed jacket clinging to his broad shoulders was running across the marble floor, combat boots leaving tiny black scuff marks on the white-and-grey surface.

He held the ‘open doors’ button down with his thumb and stepped to one side, allowing the blonde man to skid to a halt in the centre of the elevator.

“Thanks, man. Uh, thirty-eighth floor.” He told Phil, hiking the right sleeve of his jacket up to read something scrawled in purple sharpie on his forearm.

“Sure.” Phil told him, and pressed the button to close the doors, stepping back a little so that his hip brushed the wall of the elevator, assessing the man sharing the space with him.

“Oh you’re heading for 38, too?” the blonde comments, noticing that only one of the chrome buttons on the panel is backlit-blue.

“Yes.”  
“Do you know who Nick Fury is?”  
“Yes.”  
The blonde seemed taken aback by the bluntness of Phil’s answer, but ploughed on regardless.  
“I’ve got a meeting with him, something about SHIELD? Any idea what that is?”  
“I’m sorry, that’s classified.”  
One eyebrow went up and then the guy in the combat boots laughed, holding out a hand to shake.  
“Sorry, I should probably tell you my name before I ask if you know anything about a top-secret organisation. Clint Barton.”  
“Coulson.” Phil shook his hand, firmly, before releasing it and shifting slightly so that his weight was evenly distributed again rather than all on his back foot, on the defense.

“Do you have a first name, Agent Coulson?” Clint asked, adding the honorific without even asking, something that almost made Phil smile.  
“I do.”  
“Are you going to tell me what it is?”  
“Not right now. Do you want directions to Fury’s office?” he asked as the doors opened, revealing a single bored-looking receptionist, filing her nails and wearing a slightly-askew headset. She looked up and snapped her gum at Phil, then raised an eyebrow at Clint.

“He’s with me.” Phil told her, pressing his thumb to the print-reader embedded in the door handle to the right, holding it open for Clint to step through ahead of him.

The receptionist returned her attention to her nails, but Phil wasn’t fooled, even if Barton apparently had been. The blonde ‘receptionist’ was actually one of the higher-level field agents, on medical leave and acting as gatekeeper to the main offices of SHIELD. She could have killed both of them with the nail file before the elevator doors had closed.

Phil led Clint through the maze of corridors to a plain dark wooden door and knocked twice on the doorjamb rather than the door itself, a habit he’d developed after the second time an electrified bulletproof-plating had floored him, and handed Clint Barton over to the Director.

“See you around, Agent Coulson!” Clint called after him even as Fury rolled his eye, and if Phil’s mouth quirked in a smirk for the barest hint of a moment then it certainly wasn’t because he’d then heard Barton greet the Director with “So, Nick, what did you invite me into this hell-hole of suits and G-Men for, this time?”

Strangely enough, Phil found himself almost hoping that he would see Barton around the place - who knew, he might have some skills that SHIELD could use, and it had been a while since he’d had an active field agent under his wing.


	2. Accusation

“I don’t care what Sitwell says!”  
“Well, Agent Sitwell has submitted a formal complaint, so I have to follow it through.”  
A deep breath is drawn in through the nose and the voice asking the next question is forced out from between gritted teeth.  
“What are the consequences likely to be?”  
“You’ll be taken off the active duty roster and put on paperwork detail.”  
“What about-“  
“That’s already been taken care of.”

Phil glared at Director Fury even as the man refused to meet his gaze.

“So, Sitwell gets to accuse me of… what, exactly? And with no proof, no evidence and no checking of the actual facts, I get taken out of the field and Barton gets assigned a new handler? Just like that?”  
“No, Coulson. This goes deeper than that. There have been several… comments… about the nature of the relationship between yourself and Agent Barton. The fact that you’ve refused to work with other Specialists has become a topic of some discussion among the more senior agents.”  
“Do you think anyone else can handle him?”  
“That’s not the issue here, Coulson, the issue is that every other handler has at least five agents answering to them and you’ve refused to take on anyone other than Barton for six straight months.”  
“And before that I hadn’t had anyone under me for a year and a half. I’d happily take on another Specialist, if you can find someone who will work with Barton.”  
“There’s always the Russian-“  
“No, don’t even go there, Nick. Their history makes it harder for them to be on the same team, they still need some space.”  
“And how, exactly, would you know that? As far as I was aware, Barton and Romanov’s history is classified at a higher clearance level than you are currently enjoying.”

Phil stopped short at that, hands clenched into tight enough fists that he could feel his clipped-short nails digging into his palms.

Fury raised one eyebrow at the ongoing silence.

“This - this right here is what Sitwell is talking about, Coulson. You’ve lost your objectivity when it comes to Barton, you need some distance.”  
“Look, whatever he’s accusing me of, there is nothing inappropriate going on between me and Cl- Specialist Barton.”  
“And if that’s the case then you shouldn’t have a problem with him being assigned to Sitwell for two weeks while you catch up on some paperwork.”

Phil sucked in a deep breath through his nose before nodding just once.

“Yes, Sir.”  
“Good, now get the hell out of my office.”


	3. Restless

Clint barely managed eight days with Sitwell as his handler before he found himself sitting in his quarters with both knees jiggling, his fists clenching and unclenching as he itched for something to shoot at.

He’d broken some kind of obscure regulation by saying something (he had no fucking idea exactly what, because as far as he knew he’d said exactly the same things as he would have to Coulson; what was the problem?) over the comms while on a routine reconnaissance mission and had been restricted to quarters for the next week.

Yeah, like that had ever worked before.

He’d actually managed 48 whole hours obeying that order, and now he was about to crack.

He tugged his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled the third number down - he'd never changed Phil's label, he was always 'Coulson' - waiting for the response.

Two rings.

"Clint, you're not supposed to be calling me."  
"You answered, you're just as culpable."  
"Don't use big words."  
"You love it when I'm erudite don't deny it."  
"What do you want, Specialist?"  
"Don't make me say it."  
"You know, I don't out-rank Sitwell in any way, I can't reverse Fury's decision."  
"You can appeal to his better side."  
Phil just let that hang in the air for a moment, until Clint thought through what he'd just said.  
"Okay, maybe not." Clint admitted.  
"It's only two weeks, Barton."  
"You've called me three different names in the course of this conversation."  
"And you haven't even referred to me by name at all."  
"I never do."  
"Valid point. You're counting down the days, aren't you?"  
"Hours."  
"Right. "  
Clint sighed. "This is what you warned me about, isn't it? We're going to have to make a decision."  
"Yep. In six days time."  
"Phil."  
"Clint."  
"My legs won't stop moving."  
Now it was Phil's turn to sigh.  
"My door isn't locked."  
"It never is."  
"Not to you. Come on up; we'll worry about the consequences tomorrow."


	4. snowflake

Winter hits that year with a vengeance. 

Seven months have passed since Phil met Clint in the elevator, and for six and a half of those months Phil has been Clint's handler, his direct supervisor.  
Two weeks ago, Phil was suspended from active duty following a complaint from Special Agent Sitwell and today is the last day of his suspension.

Though, at this rate, he may not actually be returning to active duty in quite the capacity he is anticipating.

"Director Fury, you wanted to see me?"  
"Yes, Coulson, sit down."  
"Sir?" Phil didn't sit down, choosing to remain standing in a vaguely military position that could almost be called 'at ease' if he weren't so stiff through his shoulders as to be practically vibrating with tension.  
"Barton's being permanently reassigned to Sitwell."  
"What?" Phil's right knee almost buckled. The last fortnight had been pretty much torture for the pair of them - the one night Clint had managed to sneak into Phil's apartment he'd been caught the following morning halfway back to the barracks and then confined to quarters by Sitwell, acting in his full capacity as handler and making Clint want to shove a broad-head arrow into his eye.

"Agent Sitwell has suggested, and I agree, that your relationship with Barton isn't exactly appropriate if you're going to stay on as his handler."  
"Appropriate?"  
"Against regulations, for a start, Coulson."  
"Where exactly does it say in the handbook that I'm not allowed to be friends with my Specialists?"  
"You can be friends all you like, but Sitwell seems to be under the impression that your relationship with Specialist Barton is somewhat... different."

Phil stood there, opposite his boss, one of the few men on Earth who he actually respected and trusted, and found himself wanting to punch him.

"There is nothing 'different' about my relationship with Barton, sir."  
"He spent the entire night in your apartment."  
"And I've spent weeks at a time confined to single-bedded hotel rooms with other specialists. How is this any different?"  
"Agent Sitwell believes your judgement is compromised when it comes to Barton."  
"For fuck's sake, Nick, it's not like we're sleeping together. We're friends!"

Fury sighed, rubbing his temples.

"Then why are you fighting so hard against him being reassigned?"  
"Because I know that Barton won't cope with another handler - the reason he slept on my couch last week was that he was going mad under Sitwell, he needed a break."  
"So he sneaks out of the barracks and climbs across rooftops in the middle of the night to crawl into your bed?"  
"So he left SHIELD for the night and came to visit his friend. We ate potato chips and watched Die Hard. He slept on the couch and I showered first in the morning, when I came back into the kitchen he was gone. I've barely seen him since."  
"Except for your argument on the shooting range."

The only reason Phil's cheeks didn't heat up with embarrassment was his years of training.

"That was a misunderstanding."  
"You each had weapons drawn."  
"We were doing weapons training."  
"You scared the shit out of a dozen junior agents. Three of them quit on the spot."  
"Then they shouldn't have been working for SHIELD on the first place if they can't handle a pair of raised voices."  
"It's my understanding that it was a little more than that. Would you like to watch the footage."  
"No, sir, I don't need to do that. I was there in person."  
"Coulson, watch your tone."  
Phil's nostrils flared slightly and Fury inclined his head, raising an eyebrow, challenging Phil to defy him.  
"Fine, sir. Assign Barton to Sitwell and see how long he sticks around. For now, I'm cashing in my leave, if you want someone to clean up the mess that Sitwell causes with Barton on his team, it won't be me."

Phil didn't even give Fury a chance to respond to that, just pivoted on the ball of his left foot and strode out of the office, extracting his phone from the inside of his jacket and composing an e-mail one handed as he made for the elevators.

Before he even hit the lobby he'd sent three e-mails and two text messages, and within half an hour he was in his own apartment, stripping out of his suit and extracting a black duffel bag from the back of his closet.

He knew better than to leave by the front door, or the fire escape, hell, he knew better than to leave the apartment within the next few hours at all. He had at least six hours until there would be even the slightest chance at a gap in the surveillance, so he changed into jeans and a vintage Captain America t-shirt, a Princeton hoodie (okay, so he'd gone to college in New Jersey, sue the guy) and turned on the TiVo.

Barton showed up three hours later, dressed entirely in black and carrying a knapsack that looked empty. He came into the apartment through the window, not via the fire escape attached to the kitchen but rather Phil's bedroom window, the one that Phil had never, no matter how many times he'd attempted it, been able to free-climb up to.

"I know, you don't need to say it, I'm fucking talented." Clint told him, sketching a shallow bow from the bedroom doorway as Phil stared at him, open-mouthed.

"What the fuck are you even doing here, Barton?"  
"Fury told me that I'd been reassigned to Sitwell permanently so I quit. I assume that the reason I got stuck with that jackass is that you'd got your ass fired over me coming to see you last week, so I thought I'd come visit. I bought bourbon."  
"Clint, I didn't quit SHIELD, I've just taken the two months' leave I'm owed." Phil rounded the couch as he spoke and flopped down on it - Clint mirrored his actions, dumping his knapsack next to the coffee table and settling on the cushion next to Phil, perhaps just a little closer to him than was strictly necessary.  
"Right, because that's a good enough reason to walk out of Fury's office looking like you just got punched in the face. What happened, then, if you didn't get fired?"  
"I told Fury to reassign you and then got the hell out of there before I said something I'd regret."  
"What? What do you mean, regret?"

Phil took a deep breath, and decided to hell with it. If Barton really had quit, there was nothing standing in his way. 

"I left before I could tell him that he was right."  
"Right about what? What the hell did he say to you?"  
"Fury basically accused me of having an inappropriate relationship with you. Sleeping with your subordinates is against regulations."  
"But we're not- I mean-" Clint stuttered to a halt when he looked up and his eyes locked with Phil's.  
"Oh, come on... we made out a little and agreed that it shouldn't have happened!" He objected, and Phil sighed.  
"Clint, by rights I should have reported it and removed myself from the situation. I took advantage-"  
"You took advantage of me when I pinned you to this couch and molested you with my mouth? Phil, you pushed me off you so hard and so fast that I almost broke your damn TV."  
"I'm responsible-"  
"When we're working, you're responsible. As far as I'm concerned, when I came over the other night I was under Sitwell's jurisdiction, not to mention we were both off the clock."  
"Clint, we work for SHIELD, there is no 'off the clock'."  
"There is now, I don't work for SHIELD any more, and you're on leave."  
"Clint, we can't-"  
"No. Don't even say it. You said you've got two months, right?"  
"Eight weeks, yes."  
"Then we're going somewhere either tropical or isolated, preferably both, and we are going to be as irresponsible as we damn well please."  
"Clint, no. It's two weeks til Christmas, I can't be in Honolulu or somewhere, I have to see my family."  
"Great! I can meet them."  
"What? You... what?"  
"Phil, as far as I'm concerned we've been dating for like two months already. The only reason I haven't been jumping on you at every opportunity was because of the stupid regulations. Why do you think I took the first opportunity that presented itself to pin you down and have my way with you?"  
"Attempt to have your way with me." Phil corrected.  
"Attempt to have my way with you." Clint amended, but he'd moved slightly, turning so that one leg was tucked beneath him, he was facing Phil properly now. "Phil, I think I made myself pretty clear the other night."  
"Your tongue in my mouth was kind of a big clue." Phil deadpanned.  
"So, take me home with you this Christmas."  
"I've barely known you six months."  
"You probably know me better than my own brother at this point, Phil. In six months we've done some pretty extreme shit."

He had a point. 

Phil sighed, again.

"We've got two weeks until Christmas, right?"  
"Right."  
"What were you planning on doing if I kicked you out of my apartment and told you to get lost?"  
"I knew you wouldn't do that to me. Even if you told me you didn't want to be my boyfriend, you'd still let me stay here until I found somewhere else."  
"Oh, so I'm your boyfriend, now, am I?"  
"Yep." Clint leaned over and snuggled against him, pressing his face into his (former) handlers' shoulder. "You're not getting rid of me now."

Phil rolled his eyes, but dipped his head and pressed his lips to Clint's forehead.

"What the hell is my mother going to make of you?"  
"I make killer cupcakes. Your mom is going to love me."

They sat there, on the couch, each lost in their own thoughts for a quiet half hour, until Clint lifted his face away from Phil's collar and sniffed the air.

"What?" Phil asked, tensing up slightly.  
"It's going to snow." Clint told him, with the same certainty that most people used when saying 'the sun's about to come up'.  
"What? How can you possibly know that?"  
"I can smell it."  
"It's December tenth, no way is it..." Phil fell silent and his eyes widened as fat, fluffy snowflakes began to drift past the large picture window to his left.  
"Told you." Clint said, smug, and pressed closer against Phil's side. "Where's the thermostat? This place is freezing."


	5. haze

FIELD REPORT SUBMITTED BY - **SPECIALIST C.F. BARTON**

DATE REPORT SUBMITTED - **January 7th** (Specialist has written additional notes next to the date, however these will not be transcribed).

INCIDENT TYPE - (field left blank by Specialist)

DATE OF INCIDENT - **December 31st/January 1st**

INCIDENT CATEGORY - **B** (Injury/accident/misadventure with civilian involvement)

INCIDENT DETAILS - 

 **Phil** (Agent Coulson) **and I quit SHIELD at the start of December ~~because Fury was being a dick about him being my handler and Sitwell is a fucking idiot who can't keep his opinions to himself~~ so we went to visit his parents upstate after taking a week off in the city. When we got to his parents' place there was a detail watching so we only stayed two nights instead of the planned on week. On the third afternoon we left their place in his dad's old Buick and drove down to Princeton in a day. We managed to lose our SHIELD tail somewhere on the Jersey side of Manhattan. **

**Phil has a place in Princeton and no I'm not writing the fucking address on this stupid report how much of a moron do you think I am?**

**We crashed there and spent Christmas in Princeton it was kind of pretty but damn cold. I'm still not used to so much damn snow. Why couldn't we go somewhere tropical?**

**The day after Christmas we decided it was time to come back to New York so we did, and went to my old apartment in the Village.**

**There was plenty of booze in my old apartment so we drank most of it that afternoon because hey it was New Years Eve and we wanted to get hammered. At around ten we decided to go out into the city and see if we could maybe get anywhere near Times Square to watch the ball drop so I found my thick socks and Phil ~~stole~~ borrowed one of my long coats.**

**I don't remember going down the stairs.**

**I don't remember the cab ride.**

**I do remember getting to Times Sqare and there being a fuck-ton of people around and Phil got a bit edgy about so many people bashing into him.**

**I don't remember how we ended up just outside McDonalds but we were there and it was open so we got cheeseburgers. I ate three and Phil had one and a Cherry Coke because he's weird and likes that flavour.**

**I wanted a Shamrock Shake but it was New Years' Eve and apparently they don't have the stuff that makes Shamrock Shakes at that time of the year so I just got a regular Coke. I had my hip flask so I drank half of it then filled the cup up with bourbon, but Phil didn't want any. He said that one of us had to stay sober enough to remember how to get back to the Village and I told him that I could have found my apartment blindfolded and deafened with a bullet in my shoulder.**

**People kept on crashing into Phil even though he's not exactly hard to spot so I had to hug him to stop people knocking into him and we ended up outside Toys R Us and I had my back against their main window and was drinking my bourbon and Coke while we waited for midnight to happen.**

**I don't remember why Phil had to go but I think his cell phone rang. **

**I finished my drink and then drained my hip flask. A cop glared at me but I think she didn't want to approach me when there were two guys about to punch each others' faces in twenty feet away and she was on a horse and telling me off about drinking in Times Square would have involved getting off the damn thing and I would have stolen it. **

**Not that she knew that at the time but I think she suspected. **

**Anyway I kind of freaked out when I couldn't find Phil and my cell wouldn't work because hello Times Square at half eleven on NYE so the entire fucking network was fucked beyond all capacity so I decided to find a better vantage point. **

**I don't remember actually climbing up the traffic light but I do remember the lady-cop-on-a-horse being pretty pissed at me when she saw me on top of it and she shouted at me, something about bending the Broadway street sign and damaging City Property. Threatened me with the pepper spray and everything. I ignored that and climbed a bit higher until I was in between the light fixtures and she started talking into her radio, then I spotted Phil across the street between the planter box and the trash can but there were too many people around and he couldn't hear me shouting at him. **

**Did I mention that my cell phone didn't work because too many people were making calls? **

**Anyway I spotted Phil so I started to climb down but by this time the lady cop on the horse was talking into her radio and looking all serious. **

**I don't remember how I ended up on the back of the horse. **

**I do remember people screaming when the horse shied and I had to grab the lady cop so that I didn't fall off the damn thing. **

**I don't remember getting off the horse. **

**I don't remember getting handcuffed and arrested. **

**I don't remember being put into the back of a cop car and taken to the precinct. **

**I woke up at six AM on New Years' Day with a raging hangover, sore wrists and my head on a bench in a cell with four other guys, who were all sort of huddled together on the other bench. **

**Phil bailed me out and we had bagels for breakfast with cream cheese and I had two massive cups of straight black coffee before I could see properly, and right about the time I was about to ask Phil what the hell happened after I got onto the back of the police horse, Nick Fury showed up and offered us both our jobs back, so here I am writing up a report for an incident that happened before I was even reinstated and that I can't remember the majority of. **

**That's all you're getting, the rest is just a haze of bruises and bourbon.**

Signed - **C. Barton.**


	6. flame

Fury had been making noises for a couple of days about Clint and Phil getting back into the field; and they had been stalling at every turn.

Right this minute, they were sitting in a rather exclusive restaurant, being wooed by a man who was supposedly part of the legal team at Stark Industries.

Tony had gotten wind of the situation and decided that he wanted Phil and Clint to come and work for him. 

Thus, he has sent his best closer to talk to them about deals.

"Just so you know, legally, you can actually sue SHIELD for wrongful dismissal; they breached their own terms of employment by dismissing you because of your relationship."  
"There is a fraternisation policy." Phil pointed out, taking a mouthful of red wine, not taking his eyes off the shark-like lawyer sitting across from him and his partner.  
"Which doesn't actually apply in this situation - technically Agent Barton was employed as an outside contractor so the fraternisation rules don't apply to him, or to you as his SHIELD handler."

Clint looked at Phil sideways, and was rewarded for it with a kick to one ankle. He didn't retaliate, but it was a close thing.

"You were also within your rights as a Level 7 Field Agent to refuse to take on any more Specialists as a handler, in spite of Director Fury's insistence that you were being insubordinate by insisting that you needed more time working one-on-one with Barton."  
"You know, lawyer-man, I am sitting right here."  
"I can see that, Specialist."  
"Call me Clint."  
"Then you need to call me Mike."  
"Sure thing. So, what is Tony offering us, and why has he sent his shark rather than coming to dinner himself?" Phil was getting impatient. If Tony had a better offer, he wanted to hear it from Stark himself, not some suit with a bad haircut who couldn't keep his lapels straight.  
"Mr Stark is offering you both positions within Stark Industries - Mr Coulson, your position would be well within your area of expertise; the investigative team needs a new manager, someone who can keep them in line."  
"And what about me?" Clint emptied his beer glass and turned his attention back to the plate of fries he was demolishing, but Phil could see that he was genuinely interested - if Stark offered enough money then Barton was likely to take the offer.  
"Mr Stark is interested in having you head up his personal security team, including training the new members on marksmanship and methods to maintain the security of their principal."

Clint pretended to think about it for all of seven seconds before Phil raised one eyebrow almost imperceptibly.

"What's the offer?" Clint asked, and Phil leaned back in his seat, allowing Clint to do the negotiations. It was enough to almost throw the lawyer off his game - Clint was sitting there in torn jeans and a purple t-shirt about two sizes too small, reading over a preliminary employment contract with sharp eyes while the man in the suit jacket and tie finished his glass of wine and let him do it.

"You... don't want to take a look at that, Mr Coulson?"  
"Oh, no, Clint has a much better brain for legalese than I do, besides, he's the one who renegotiated our contracts with SHIELD. Two days ago."  
"Then why did you agree to take this meeting with- oh. You're, you want to mess with Mr Stark."  
"No, we just wanted to see how much Tony might be willing to pay us if he thought we'd actually leave SHIELD for any reason." Phil told him, making the lawyer bury his face in his hands.  
"And it's not a bad deal - maybe we should have made the new SHIELD agreement conditional?" Clint asked, tapping a couple of figures printed in bold type, and Phil leaned over to take a look, letting out a low whistle.  
"Jeez, it's almost as if Tony hacked into the system at head office and found out what our previous deals were and increased it by... what percentage is that, Clint?"  
"Thirty." Clint told him, not looking up. The lawyer, Mike, seemed to realise at this point that he was not going to be taking back a pair of signed contacts to Mr Stark. "Plus a fifty percent increase in annual bonus and higher danger money percentage."  
"Good thing we decided to take Nick to the cleaners." Phil pointed out, pouring himself another glass of wine as Mike realised his position was entirely untenable.  
"Look, Mike, you seem like a good guy, and you're working for one of the smartest men on the planet, but the last person I would want to be employed by is Tony Stark. We have a few... issues. Personality clashes." Phil told him, while Clint reached over and pulled a highlighter out of the inside pocket of Phil's jacket, running it over a few lines.  
"Oh, and Mike, just because I'm a field agent doesn't mean I'm stupid. Can I have your phone, Phil?"  
"Which one?"  
"Which one do you think? I want to talk to Tony."  
"Fine." Phil shifted in his seat and pulled what looked like a clear piece of plastic with a black rubber border around it out of his pants pocket, handing it to Clint even as the lawyer looked up from where he had been muttering at the table.  
"Thanks." Clint pressed his thumb to the surface and it flashed green before coming to life, and Clint flicked through the menus until he found Tony's icon, pressed it, then the loudspeaker button, and waited until the call was answered.  
"Hawkeye!" Phil winced a little when Tony's voice came through the speaker, and thanks to the high quality of the technology it was as if the man himself was in the room.  
"Hey, Stark. We're chatting with your buddy Mike, and he's just shown me some very interesting paperwork."  
"Hi, Mike. Phil, I'm gonna assume you're sitting there, too?"  
"Good evening, Mr Stark." Phil greeted him, then took another large mouthful of wine, one corner of his mouth twitching a little as he put a hand back into his pocket and tapped a few keys on his phone, he was determined to record this conversation, if for no other reason than he was reasonably certain that Clint was about to render Stark speechless.

"So, Tony. You're offering us jobs."  
"Yes, I am. Well, actually, Mike is, but they're with my company."  
"At thirty percent higher than our last financial year."  
"Don't forget the danger money clause."  
"That's a standard clause in our line of work, Stark."  
"Well, considering that Phil wouldn't actually be in the line of fire, he'll be getting danger money for nothing."  
"Right. Because working for you is inherently less dangerous than working for Fury. What do you want, Stark? The only reason you know that I exist is that Pepper likes Phil, and you're barely offering thirty cents on the dollar. You can't be too hard up for security." Clint asked, and Phil bit his own lip, holding his breath while he waited for Tony to answer.

"Ugh, fine." Tony admitted after a five second pause, and there was a distinct sound of something metal hitting a concrete floor. "I'm sick of Fury having all the badass guys working for him and I want someone to help me out with Iron Man test runs; I hear Clint can hit a moving target with anything you put in his hand, and you're one of the higher ranking SHIELD guys that I think I can trust."  
"Trust?"  
"Well, you know. I figure if Fury thought you were the one to check me out with regard to his god-damn Avengers Initiative, you'd be the guy to poach."  
"Good luck with that. We're not working for you, Tony." Clint informed him, and picked the contract up, tearing it in half right above the phone, making sure that Tony would hear it.  
"Barton, did you just... did you tear a Stark Industries contract offer in half?" Tony asked, incredulous.  
"Quarters, even. Thinking I might burn it..." Clint informed him, tearing it into smaller pieces and then dragging a few through the flame of the candle in the middle of the table.  
"What? Why- oh. Fury doubled your pay, didn't he?"  
"Tripled, actually. Offered us six weeks paid leave a year, too." Phil told him, and drained his wine glass. Picking up the bottle, he frowned a little when he realised it was empty, but set it down and watched as Clint turned the burning paper over in his hands, dropping it onto his plate once it was well aflame.  
"You forgot about the condo." Clint pointed out.  
"Oh, and the condo in the Village. Then there's the expense account."  
"You forgot about the car, dammit, Phil, I went over those contracts with a fine-tooth comb, the least you could do is show some appreciation for all the perks we're getting."  
"I've had a lot of wine, forgive me forgetting about the black AMEX."  
"What the hell kind of leverage do you two have on Fury and what do I have to pay you to find out about it?" Tony asked, clearly in awe.  
"We're not telling."  
"And it would take a ten percent share in Stark Industries before we'd consider leaving SHIELD."  
"I can do-" Tony started, but Clint cut him off.  
"Each."  
"Oh." Tony fell silent, and Clint shot a smug grin at Phil, before tilting his head in apology at Mike.  
"Just because I grew up in the circus and never bothered with my GED doesn't mean I'm an idiot, Tony. I'm smarter than people think and I like to keep it that way. We'll catch up later, I promise, but for now I'm taking my boyfriend home, because he's had too much wine, and we're going to test out the new bed we had delivered this afternoon."  
"Okay, okay! Too much information! Just - next time you're in this part of the world I want you to both come and see me."  
"I'm sure we'll be on the west coast sometime soon, Tony, and we'll talk to you then."

Clint ended the call and handed the Stark Phone back to Phil, who put it into his jacket pocket, rather than his pants, because the mention of the new bed had caused a little tightness in that area.

"Well, Mike, it was great to have dinner with you - don't forget to charge it all to SI, and we'll catch up next time Tony thinks he can buy us off, ok?" 

Clint got up and caught Phil's hand, leading him out of the restaurant and onto the street - they were only three blocks from the condo but there was three feet of snow on the ground, so Clint hailed a cab to get them back there.  
"I think I have a new text-alert." Phil told Clint, leaning into him as the cab pulled up.  
"What?" Clint asked, distracted, trying to get the door open and fold Phil into the backseat without tumbling into the gutter himself.  
"You interrupted Tony Stark, and made him sound like a disappointed kid who dropped his ice-cream. Best present you've ever got me."  
"You recorded that conversation?"  
"For posterity."  
"Just pray that Fury never gets his hands on it - if he finds out that we told Stark about our new deal he might just kill one of us."


	7. formal

"I feel like a penguin."  
"You look very dashing."  
"You have to say that, you're my date."  
"Doesn't make it any less true."  
"...you studied law at Princeton, didn't you?"  
"That's classified and you know it."  
"Oh, what, so I get to suc-"  
"Yes, I studied law at Princeton. Keep your comments appropriate, this is a childrens' charity event."  
"Then why aren't there any kids here? If there were at least I might have some people I could talk to."  
"You have me. And Tony was due here an hour ago, so he'll be arriving within about forty minutes. You two can discuss the wildly inappropriate arrowheads he wants you to test next week and then race each other to the bottom of the whiskey bottle."  
"I don't even try any more, he's had so much more practice than I have, it's not even a competition. It just ends with him playing bad 80's music through his phone and videotaping me while I dance to it."  
"Why haven't I seen those tapes?"  
"Because I have video of him doing the same thing and if you see one then you see the other, and I also send it to Pepper. He knows better than to test me."  
"Right. Speaking of dancing..."  
"No."  
"Oh, come on, there's a string quartet, how often do we get to dance?"  
"Every morning, in the kitchen, when you whirl me around so that you can get to the coffeemaker."  
"I meant with real music, not that trash you play through your iPod."  
"..."  
"..."  
"Ugh, fine. You did that look on purpose. One song."  
"Three."  
"One and a half."  
"Two and I'll make you waffles in the morning."

Clint extended his hand to his boyfriend, partner, roommate, handler, and allowed himself to be taken onto the dance floor just as another song began. They turned in a slow few circles before Clint realised that they weren't dancing properly, neither of them was leading, they were just sort of holding onto each other and rotating on the spot.  
"Well?"  
"Well, what?"  
"Aren't you going to spin me around and get me all breathless?"  
"Why would I do that?"  
"You always lead when we dance at home."  
"I didn't know if you'd want me to lead when we're-"  
"What? In public? Why not? Come on, Phil, just... here." He rearranged their hands so that Phil was leading, then ducked his head and looked up from beneath his eyebrows, waggling them suggestively.  
"Take me around the dance floor, Agent, let's see just how much attention you paid during all those lessons that SHIELD paid for."  
"You are going to be the death of me, Barton."  
"Probably. Shut up and make me feel pretty."


	8. companion

Clint doesn't want to go.

But Phil can't go alone, not this time.

"It's not a circus, not really."

Clint frowns, but he's still stiff-shouldered.

"Calling it a pretty French name and not having any animals doesn't make it less of a circus. Just because there's no sideshows doesn't mean it isn't a circus - people are still going to the shows to watch freaks."  
"They're not freaks, they're just... flexible."  
"It's all the same. I've been the one in the centre of the ring, sawdust in my boots, popcorn hitting me on the back of the head while I'm trying to make sure that my arrow flies straight and doesn't end up through one of the acrobats' throats-"

Phil leans over and presses a hand to Clint's shoulder, silencing him.

"You don't have to come."

Clint just snorts at that. 

"Without me, you have no in. Zero, zip, zilch, nada. I'm the key to this infiltration, and without someone who can perform just as well as the rest of the men on the tightropes and silks, you're just another casting agent with shady intentions. With me, you're my casting agent and you've got a reason to be hanging around."

Phil looks at him for a few seconds, before nodding, just once.

"You remember the codes?"  
"Of course."  
"And you know that any time-"  
"Any time I want out I just tell you. No matter what."  
"Exactly. Fuck Fury and the horse he rode in on; if you're threatened or getting freaked out he can send someone else in."  
"Fuck, Phil... it's at moments like this that I can't believe that I'm lucky enough to have you."  
"Yeah, well, I love you, you great lug, so get used to me hanging around."

They both froze, when the weight of what Phil had said sank in, and Phil's eyes widened, looking at Clint but almost scared of his reaction.

Clint had stopped breathing, just for a few seconds... but as he looked up and made eye contact with Phil, every doubt he'd ever entertained suddenly seemed... trivial.

"I love you back."

They stood there, in the break room, by the coffee maker that produced a black sludge referred to as 'the deadly Ooze' by the baby agents and 'the tears of angels' by anyone who'd served for more than three years, and grinned at each other like idiots until Clint rolled his eyes a little and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"C'mon, I'll teach you how to use fire chains and maybe you can be the performer while I pretend to be your skeevy casting agent."


	9. move

"You know, more than half your things are already here, we might as well make it formal."  
"Are you seriously asking me to move in with you?"  
"No, I'm suggesting that, as responsible adults, or a reasonable facsimile of a pair of responsible adults, we should combine our living arrangements. That and the fact that you haven't slept in your own apartment for almost a month, would indicate that you're not entirely averse to the idea."

Clint considered this.

"You know, even if I let that lease lapse, I'll still have quarters in the barracks-"  
"You haven't been there since we came back to SHIELD. Don't act like there's actually anything there that needs to be collected."  
"Point taken. So. You really do want me to move into your apartment?"  
"I want you to stop paying rent on a place you never sleep and perhaps spend that money on something more fun."  
"Such as?"  
"Such as I have no idea; but it'd be an extra twenty two hundred a month that you can waste. Maybe you can buy new jeans."  
"You love my ragged jeans."

Phil smirked at that, it was true, though, so he didn't bother to deny the accusation.

"Fine, but I know for a fact that your lease is up in two weeks. Sign it off and we'll have that horrible old couch moved into the den."  
"Oh, come on, you hate that thing."  
"And I am willing to make the sacrifice and allow it into the house, if it'll make you happy."  
"You're too good to me."  
"Damn straight, and don't you forget it." Phil told him, catching Clint around the waist and dragging him down to the black leather sofa in pride of place before the television, pressing a firm kiss to his neck.  
"Never."


	10. silver

There is one teeny tiny problem that Phil encounters when Clint moves entirely in to the condo provided by SHIELD and allows the lease to lapse on his shoebox of an apartment eight blocks away.

He never had much time to himself, before, but apparently Clint seems to think that moving in together = attaching himself to Phil like a limpet at every opportunity.

He's a bit like a cat in that regard, even when Phil's in the bathroom, he rarely gets a moments' peace. It's a little... well. Phil is just grateful that he can isolate himself at the office, the moment he gets a whiff of paperwork, Clint is suddenly nowhere to be found. 

If he thought it would work, if he wouldn't be breaking his own rules by doing it, Phil would bring home some paperwork to spread around the living room just to get some alone time in the condo, but it's still not that desperate.

Not until it's been a month and, one morning, getting out of the shower, he scrubs the towel over his face and then across the steamed-up mirror and spots it.

Above his left ear, just where his sideburns start, there it is.

It shouldn't be such a shock, he's forty-seven, and his own father had a lot more silver threaded through a lot less hair by this age.

It's still... well. 

Clint notices, of course he notices, and Phil suspects that he may have even noticed the cluster of grey hairs at his temples before Phil himself even caught a glimpse of them; it's not like he looks at his own face in the mirror for hours at a time every day, he's lucky if he even uses the thing to shave more often than once a week. 

But Clint clearly catches it when Phil has noticed the streak of silver, because all of a sudden, rather than being stuck like glue, he has a shocking respect for personal space, going so far as to knock on the jamb before entering Phil's office.

"You know, Barton, just because my going grey happens to coincide with our co-habitation doesn't mean that you're the cause of it." he mutters at Clint, who is still lounging in the doorway, fiddling with one of the zips on his field vest.  
"I know, I know... but I can't help but feel a bit responsible."  
"I said it's not your fault; I never said I wasn't blaming you, anyway."  
"Silver fox."  
"Juvenile delinquent."


	11. prepared

Pouring himself a bowl of cereal, Phil altered his grip on the box and shook it a little, before setting it down and pulling the wax-paper bag containing the cereal out of the box.  
He tipped the box itself to one side and peered in, sighed, rolled his eyes and reached into the container, extracting a folder butterfly knife from the bottom of it.  
"Clint." He said, barely raising his voice but knowing that his now-husband (Two days after New York state legalized same-sex marriage he'd filed the paperwork; there'd been a short, sweet ceremony with the Director and Agent Romanoff present, no photographs and Clint hadn't even been wearing a tie) could hear him from his position on the couch.  
"Phil." Clint replied, not taking his eyes off the TV screen. Phil sighed, again, and pulled the knife out of the cereal box, returned the bag of cereal to said box, and slipped the blade into the pocket of his pants.  
"Fine, don't tell me. But this conversation is not over."  
"What conversation?" Clint asked, still not looking at Phil.  
"The one about you hiding weapons in the pantry."  
"Isn't the SHIELD motto 'be prepared'?"  
"That's the Boy Scouts and you know it."  
"...isn't SHIELD just a group of grown-up Boy Scouts?"  
"I was never a Scout."  
"Of course not."  
"Hey, my father was a Civil War re-enactor, if I'd been anything but a member of the History Society he might have disowned me."  
"Yeah, because your dad disowning you would have been such a crushing thing to happen. You barely talk to the guy."  
"Because I don't have time, and stop trying to change the subject. Why was there a butterfly knife in the bottom of the Lucky Charms box?"  
"Like I said, be prepared."  
"What, for a leprechaun to attack you at the breakfast bar? Clint, this is the most secure building in the city, outside of SHIELD HQ and Stark Tower itself. You yourself have tried to break in at least a dozen times and failed, miserably. You might have blocked it out but I distinctly remember you calling me from a spot halfway up the western wall, begging me to lower you a line from the roof so that you could get out of the position you'd been stuck in for an hour."  
"I don't care." Clint's jaw was set, and Phil realised that this was perhaps a line of questioning he should not have started.  
"Clint, you know we're safe here. And you're armed all the time, anyway. Why do you keep putting sharp things in my cereal boxes?"  
Clint sighed, and finally turned his attention away from Applejack on the TV screen (Phil didn't question the fact that Clint watched cartoons aimed at little kids, just like Clint never questioned the DVR full of Supernanny and various other reality shows) to look Phil in the eye.  
"It helps, okay. Helps me feel safer. I mean, I know this place is secure, I just need..."  
"Oh, Clint." Phil put the bowl of cereal down and rounded the counter, leaning back against it and looking down at Clint. "Clint, I know you need to feel secure, but can you keep it out of my cereal boxes?"  
"Can I at least hide a Derringer next to the coffeemaker?"  
"A two-shot. Nothing bigger."  
"Love you."  
"Yeah, yeah. Now shove over and change the channel, I can't stand those ponies."


	12. knowledge

"You're not as sneaky as you think you are."  
"Yeah, I kind of am."  
"Oh, no you are not."  
"C'mon, seriously... you and Natasha are the only two people who I can't get the drop on."  
"I'll admit, Fury does keep threatening to put a bell around your neck. But that's not what I'm talking about."  
"What?"  
"Those photos. The ones on your phone."  
"What photos?" Clint was suddenly shifty, sitting at the breakfast bar, nursing a coffee, Phil was waiting for the microwave to finish heating up his bowl of porridge.  
"Like I said, you're not as sneaky as you think you are."  
"You're my husband, I can't hide much from you."  
Phil just raised one eyebrow as he pulled the porridge out of the microwave, drizzling some honey over it and joining Clint at the breakfast bar, hooking one ankle through the other bar-stool and dragging it so that rather than sitting next to Clint he was opposite him, able to look him in the eye.  
"Okay, I can't hide anything from you. What do you want to know about the photos?"  
"Well, for a start, why you have so many photos of my tattoos? It's not like they're going anywhere."  
"You only have three."  
"And you've got half a dozen. We've been through this, I'm not getting any more."  
"I know, I know. I was just... I had my tattooist take a look."  
"Clint..."  
"I know, I know. But the one on your shoulder is ancient, it could do with a touch up."  
"Clint, I got that shield tattooed on me when I was nineteen. I managed to get through the entirety of my armed forces training, not to mention my first tour of duty, without getting it damaged. I;ve seen the work your guy does, you think I'm going to trust him near a vintage-"  
"I'll pay for it."  
"I don't care! I don't need it retouched!"  
"Oh, fine. Don't get jealous when you see mine after they've been given some love."


	13. denial

"No."  
"Well, you can't just say that. I haven't even asked the question, yet."  
"And I'm pre-empting it. No. You cannot borrow my husband-"  
"Husband? What? How did I miss that? Pepper! Did you know that the Agent and the Archer got married?"  
In the background, Pepper could be heard laughing, then another microphone somewhere picked up on her voice and she was as clear as Stark himself through the trans-continental phone call.  
"Phil, he's turned purple. It's hilarious. You want me to turn on the video call?"  
"No, it's fine. Can you convince him that he can't just borrow Clint anytime he feels like it? Agent Barton works for a government agency, he has responsibilities. Tony can't just steal him anytime he wants to test new field equipment-"  
"What new field equipment!? Are you talking to Tony? Tony! Do you have new arrows for me? Put it on speaker, Phil."  
Phil groaned and leaned back in his chair. He'd been certain that he had at least another ten minutes before Clint would be done on the range, but apparently Clint's ear for new tech was better than his nose for bourbon.  
"Put me on speaker or I'll do it for you, Coulson." Tony told him, and, reluctantly, Phil did just that, stabbing at the speaker button and allowing Pepper's giggles to fill the room.  
"You have new toys for me, Tony?" Clint asked, shoving aside a small tower of paperwork and installing himself on the desk.  
"Yes, yes I do. After the... incident... in New Mexico, it's been decided that it would be prudent to test out a few higher-end options for the SHIELD sharp-shooter."  
"He wants you to come out to Malibu to test them. I told him that you've got too much to do here-"  
"California in July? Awesome!"  
Phil dropped his head into his hands - apparently he wasn't going to be allowed to finish a single sentence while Tony and Clint were talking.  
"He can't come to Malibu!" Phil shouted, but was ignored by the other two. Apparently, Tony had decided that speaker phone wasn't invasive enough - he'd hacked into Phil's computer and his face had popped up in a small window, almost immediately maximised.  
"Hey, turn the screen around so I can see your boyfri- sorry, your husband, properly." he called out, and Phil removed one hand from his forehead, spinning the computer monitor so that Clint and Tony could talk.  
"This is not happening, you have not just hacked into the SHIELD systems so that you could- what is that?" Phil looked out from between his fingers at the sleek black quiver that Tony was holding up, while Pepper, over his shoulder, was displaying a shiny new bow with the air of a model from The Price Is Right.  
"Oh awesome! Does that do what I think it does?" Clint asked, leaning in to get a closer look at the tech.  
"Sure does, buddy. Check it out. Pepper, if you will?" 

Three minutes of demonstrations later, Clint was looking at Phil with big, sad eyes, while Tony mirrored the expression in high def from the other side of the country.  
"No. You can't go today, you can go next week-"  
"I can send the jet tomorrow." Tony supplied, and Clint, having snapped his head around when Tony started talking, turned back to Phil, his lower lip now sticking out.  
"No. Next week at the earliest- do you have any idea the amount of paperwork you two generate any time you get together? Last time there were three separate incident reports."  
"Oh, it wasn't that bad."  
"You somehow managed to steal a camel. I still haven't recovered from having to watch that security footage."  
"But Pepper will be there, this time, keeping an eye on us."

At that point there was a small cough from the woman in question.  
"Uh, actually, I'll be in Chicago, we've got a takeover bid being presented and I kind of need to be there."  
"No." Phil told them both.  
"Please?"  
"Come on, I'll do that thing-" Clint's next few words were muffled by Phil's hand over his mouth.  
"Not. Another. Word." Phil told him, eyes dark.  
Clint nodded.  
"I am not authorising you to travel to California with less than 48 hours notice. I am, however, clearing your entire schedule for the next two weeks. You are effectively on leave. What you do with that leave is up to you. I deny all knowledge of your activities and if you get arrested again then you can bail yourselves out."  
Clint nodded again, and Tony followed suit, opening his mouth to say something. Phil forestalled him.  
"Do not tell me anything. Do not ask me any more questions and wait until I leave before you tell him which airport to meet your plane at, for god's sakes. At least leave me some plausible deniability."

With that, he scooped the top five folders off of his desk and left the room, and in the second before he closed the door he heard Clint ask a very pertinent question.  
"I have a schedule?"


	14. wind

Phil is a man of routine and ritual.

Unfortunately, his husband is very much not. 

Clint can go days without sleep, will happily eat virtually anything put in front of him (Tony has tested this theory. Extensively. There were worms involved.) and unless he is reminded to he will not shower daily.

Phil, however.

Phil gets up at six every morning, even on Sundays. No matter what he's been up to he gets out of bed before six fifteen; his bladder is so well trained that it doesn't matter if he's only been in bed two hours he will still have to get up at six fifteen to pee.

Even if he goes back to bed at this point about the only thing that will keep him there is Clint pinning him down and even then, once Clint is asleep again, Phil will get up and have a cup of coffee (or tea, on Sundays). 

Weekdays are a routine, a set version of events that rarely alters course. Up, coffee, a bowl of cereal or porridge for breakfast (never toast) and he'll put C-Span on in the background, half-listening to the news as he wakes up to greet the world.

At seven thirty he goes back into the bedroom, sits down on his side of the (neatly made except for the Barton-shaped lump on the other side) bed and pick up the chunky silver wristwatch from next to his lamp. Usually it's sitting on top of whichever book Phil is *trying* to read at the moment... currently he's on the fourth Harry Potter book, at Clint's insistence.

He takes the watch in hand and turns it over, running his thumb over the inscription.

"Phillip J Coulson; suma cum laude" is engraved on the back of the watch- the 'P' and the last 'e' are fading, the 'e' almost flattened into the sterling silver. But he'll never have the engraving 'done over'. It was a graduation present, from his grandmother.

The watch sits in his palm for almost a full minute while he brushes his fingers over the cursive, before it is flipped and he tugs at the knob, winding it carefully, twenty-four rotations, no more, no less.

Clint thought that it was odd, at first, that a man like Phil would have a wind-up watch. 

Until they were completely cut off from their team and the only reliable way to tell time, thanks to huge electromagnetic fields affecting everything around them, was the silver watch on Phil's left wrist.

When Phil gets shot in the shoulder, almost six months after they're married, just on a year out from the New Mexico incident, he's put into a medically induced coma because the bullet chipped his shoulderblade and the internal bleeding is horrific.

Clint is handed a plastic bag of Phil's things, still covered in Phil's blood, not unlike Clint himself. 

The watch is at the bottom of the bag, a smear of reddish-brown blood drying across the face. Clint doesn't even hesitate, strapping it to his own arm, even though it's actually a little big and spins on his wrist, the face ending up on the inside of his arm. 

For the five days that Phil is in the coma, Clint gets out of bed (the bed next to Phil's in the ward) at six am. 

Has a cup of coffee from the machine down the hall, and a bowl of whatever cereal the nurses have scrounged up for him.

Then, at seven thirty, he sits on the side of Phil's bed and picks up the watch from where he'd left it, next to the jug of water at Phil's bedside, and winds it, twenty-four rotations, no more, no less.

When Phil wakes up, 48 hours after being taken off the coma-drugs, the first thing he sees is Clint, asleep on his stomach in the bed next to him, his arm dangling off the edge of the bed, Phil's watch securely around his arm. 

Phil smiles, takes a deep breath, and allows a natural wave of sleep to wash over him.


	15. order

Clint rarely listens to orders in the field.

In the bedroom, it's even worse.

Because there, there... he's the one giving the orders and by God that power trip is something to behold.

Of course, when he and Phil first... connected... their love life remained somewhat rushed and stolen, the moments they managed together were never leisurely and there was no question of who was in charge, much less an answer provided. For want of better terminology they were like a pair of horny teenagers, more than once Clint came in his pants (Phil would never allow such an indignity to pass, though it was a close call a couple of times).

The first time they actually have _time_ to spend together it is only because Phil has taken an entire weekend and booked a ghost operation on the SHIELD servers, made it look like covert ops and booked them into a five-star hotel in Chicago so that they won't be disturbed. He also contacts the hotel manager and, thanking all the stars in existence for the fact that the Four Seasons does not question _anything_  makes some arrangements.

Clint is not suspicious when they leave, flying business class rather than economy for once, but Phil's briefing for the mission had indicated that they were posing as a pair of lawyers from a firm in Manhattan, overseeing a merger in Chicago. Apparently the merger was a front for some major weapons deal and the only thing Clint had to say about it was that he hated wearing a tie. That and he didn't really think that his skills as a sniper would come in handy if they spent the entire weekend in a bunch of board rooms.

It took Clint until that evening, when they were sitting in a dimly lit restaurant, until he realised that perhaps this mission wasn't exactly legitimate.

Of course, then he decided to take full advantage of what was, essentially, a weekend away on SHIELD's dime. That included attempting to order an entire bottle of the most expensive bourbon on the drinks list, until Phil nudged his ankle with one toe and raised an eyebrow, looked to the ceiling, towards their room eighteen floors up, and smiled.

Clint's brows drew together for a long moment, until the light dawned, and he seemed to remember that the weekend away on SHIELD's dime included a California King bed for two nights and a day.

Suddenly his Dragon Roll wasn't nearly as interesting as it had seemed a moment ago, and Phil learned that, even when he was still wearing socks, Clint could unzip pants with his toes.

 

Two hours later they were back in the room, Clint sprawled on the bed, flat on his back, still entirely dressed aside from his shoes, socks and tie.

Phil was similarly attired, except he'd shrugged out of his jacket after removing his own tie, and crawled up the bed until he was straddling Clint's thighs.

"So, how are we going to do this, then?" Clint asked, blunt as ever.

"What?"

"Well, what are you in the mood for?" Clint arched his back slightly, pushing Phil upwards and making his erection dig into Phil's thigh, at the same time he threaded his fingers behind his head, licking his lips and grinning.

"That depends, what do you want to do?" Phil leaned down and they kissed for a long moment, just a lazy slide of lips and tongues until Clint realised what was going on- Phil was waiting for him to take control.

So he did. Rather forcefully. He reversed their positions with a deft movement of his hips, pinning Phil to the bed and dragging the older mans' hands up to above his head.

"Are you okay with this?" Clint breathed, pressing forward even as Phil gasped, smiling.

"My safe-word is Tabasco." Phil told him, and Clint paused, just for a moment, drawing back.

"You... you trust me enough to tell me your safe-word?"

"I trust you enough that don't think I'll need to use it."

With a groan that shot straight to the pit of Phil's stomach, Clint kissed him again, tugging both his handlers' wrists until they were above his head at an almost uncomfortable angle.

"You'll take orders?" Clint asked.

"Yes."

"Let me call the shots?"

"Yes."

"No questions asked?"

"Clint, I've read your file, it's a lot more in-depth than you might think. I... I read the pertinent information after the first night you crashed on my couch."

"In-depth? What? How-?"

"Just, trust me. Okay? Look in the drawer." Phil nodded to his left and Clint's eyes narrowed slightly, but he released Phil's wrists and moved over, opening the drawer. His eyes widened a little at what he found there, but after a moment he smiled again.

"You really trust me, this much?" He asked, pulling the silver handcuffs out of the drawer, quickly followed by a bottle of lube and a strip of condoms. There were other... items... in the drawer, but for the moment the cuffs and condoms, along with the KY, were more than enough to have Clint needing to concentrate on his breathing in order to prevent ruining his pants.

"Of course I trust you."

"Tabasco?"

"Tabasco."


	16. Thanks

To be fair, it wasn't actually Phil's fault.

Okay, it was entirely Phil's fault, he was just extremely fortunate that Darcy was willing to take the fall for him. And that Clint was happy to pretend to believe her, while they were in the office at least.

"He forgot, didn't he?"  
"Uh, no, I forgot to put it into his calendar. I'm sure he would have remembered-"  
"Darcy, it's not your responsiblity to remember important things, it's his. By rights he should have given you the list the week you started." Clint paused, cocking his head to one side as if listening to the ceiling, then smirked at Darcy.

"Actually, all the important dates should have been in his calendar already."  
"Well, for some reason, this one wasn't. Maybe he didn't want something so personal on the SHIELD servers."  
"Oh, come on, Darce, you don't seriously think that SHIELD doesn't have every single moment of our time spent together documented in some form or another."  
"Yes, I know that, Clint, but the exact moment that the two of you met seems to have been... well. There are conflicting accounts, by about a week, as to where and when you first made contact."  
"...what?" Clint's eyes narrowed at that - he distinctly remembers the first time he met Phil, or, as he named him inside his own head 'Agent Stick-Up-His-Ass' for the first time. 

"It was about a week after Fury called me in, I was on the range and Phil showed up to tell me that he was my new handler and he needed to see what i could do, to make sure that I was field-ready."  
"Well..."  
"What?"  
"Well, Phil's account is a little different."  
"Different how?"  
Darcy took a deep breath, then rattled off what Phil had told her without a single pause for Clint to interrupt. He tried, several times, but failed. 

Darcy had, after all, learned how to be inflappabe from the man who practically epitomised the term.

"Phil says that the day you met was the day you had that meet with Nick on the 38th floor of the old SHIELD building-"  
"But I never-"  
"AND he says that you were in your ratty leather jacket with skinny jeans and had Nick's name and his floor number written on your right arm in purple Sharpie, you smiled at him and asked him if he was going to 38, as well-"  
"No, that wasn't Phil, that was someone else-"  
"You asked him who Nick Fury was, because apparently you decided to play dumb, and you called him 'Agent Coulson' without prompting. You didn't shake hands, but you would not stop smiling and it kind of freaked him out a bit."  
"I don't remember any of this-"  
"You followed him through the lobby and you greeted Nick like an old friend, asked him something about being in a hell-hole and before he could hear anything else, Phil had to get to his office because his BlackBerry had started to go mental."

Clint stared at her, racking his brains to try and remember his first trip to the old SHIELD tower, and after a few long moments, his eyes widened.

"Darcy Lewis, you are a goddess and I owe you bigtime."  
"Yeah, you do."  
"Thank-you, thank-you so much, oh god-dammit I'm a terrible husband-"  
"No, you're not, you just have a worse memory than the average goldfish."  
"That, too. What can I do to - tell you what. You've got one of those wish-list things on that website, right?"  
"Which one?"  
"Oh, I don't know, pick the most expensive one."  
"You might regret that, Clint, Saks has a wish-list option."  
"Don't care. Pick out the prettiest shoes you want and send me an e-mail with the details. My treat."  
"Are you certain? Because I've got my eye on a pair of Louboutins-"  
"Don't care. Trust me, I've got plenty of spare cash thanks to the danger money that SHIELD pays, and the fact that Tony's never charged anyone rent, ever in the history of the Avengers Tower."  
"You're sure? They're purple-"  
"Consider it an early bonus. I'll buy you the matching purse if you can tell me what I can possibly do for Phil to make up for missing our anniversary by almost a week."  
"Here." Darcy reached into her top drawer and pulled out a small black business card with two lines of text and a phone number printed on it.  
"What's this?"  
"That is something that you most certainly did not get from me. It's the name of Tony Stark's personal tailor, who already has Phil's measurements thanks to the fact that I collect the man's dry-cleaning."  
"And what am I-"  
"He wants a waistcoat, but he can't wear one in the field because it's too restrictive and he can't fit his holster over it. Get him a three-piece suit and take him to that little Italian place in SoHo."

Clint stared at the card for a moment before lunging over the desk and catching Darcy in a very enthusiastic hug, kissing her soundly on both cheeks and squeezing her until she squeaked.

"You are the best assistant ever. You're getting those shoes, a matching purse and a raise. I love you, Darcy."  
"Yeah, yeah. Just don't get caught with that number, or Tony might confiscate my Taser."


	17. look

Established, comfortable couples, who know each other so well that they sometimes get on each others' nerves, often have many and varied non-verbal methods of communications.

Phil and Clint have, over the course of their relationship, established a series of glances, looks and smirking facial expressions that can communicate any number of emotions, states of mind and have (in a few instances) been used in lieu of speaking out loud just to irritate Tony Stark.

This morning it's a raised eyebrow and a wink instead of 'I love you's' exchanged when they part ways at the SHIELD compound. 

They've arrived in the same car, but the second the engine is shut off, Phil's earpiece goes insane and he just has time to shoot Clint a grin before exiting the car at speed, glancing back over the roof of the Acura to smile at his husband and receives a wink and a smirk in reply.

It's enough, more than enough, especially when Phil thinks that they'll be seeing each other for lunch.

They don't see each other for lunch.

In fact, the only capacity that they see each other in is when Phil is called to the research level by Dr Selvig because, apparently, the Tesseract is doing screwy things and Phil is the most senior agent that Selvig can contact.

Phil glances up to where he knows Clint has installed himself, on security detail here at the compound voluntarily, rather than being out in the field. He injured his ankle a few weeks ago and, even though it's well and truly healed, he's really enjoying the domesticity of driving to and from work with Phil, actually sleeping in the same bed every night and having lunch together. It's not like on a mission, when they live in each others' pockets, but it's still nice to see each other during the day. 

Another wink-and-smirk combination is sent down from the nest, and Phil bites his lower lip, disguising it as a cough when Dr Selvig glances up to where Phil has been looking, rolls his eyes and then continues his briefing.

Over Phil's shoulder, the Tesseract, the cube of bluish-white light that reminds Phil more of Stark's new chest piece more than he'd like to admit, suddenly emits a loud noise and all of the connected equipment, which had been turned off, is suddenly whirring back to life.

"I'm calling the Director, he'll be here in an hour. I'm ordering an evacuation - that thing has more potential power than a nuclear warhead and I don't want to risk the bulk of the SHIELD researchers if it's going to go off."  
"It's not going to go off, agent-"  
"Or whatever." Phil cut off Dr Selvig, and the man gave up on his explanations as a lost cause, returning to his computer.

Phil shot one last glance at Clint and mirrored the wink-and-smirk combination before mounting the stairs as he called the Director.


	18. summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been a little confusion - this used to be titled 'Little Wonders' but that no longer seemed appropriate for the direction I'm taking the overall narrative.  
> Thanks for reading, everyone!

The last thing Clint remembered was Loki was poking him in the chest with a glowing sceptre, before he woke up in the belly of the Helicarrier, Natasha about to kick him in the face, his head spinning.

It had taken another few hours after her 'cognitive recalibration' before she gave him a run-down of what was going on; once his head had cleared and he'd passed her version of a field sobriety test, which involved some pointed questions about missions they'd run together and feinting a few quick jabs at his head before attempting to ruffle his hair then launching straight into an explanation of what the hell had happened in the three and a half days he had been under the (apparent) demi-god's control.

Loki had vanished, along with the staff-thing - Nat hadn't given him too many details but apparently Loki had allowed himself (and his stupid fucking staff-thing) to be captured by SHIELD in order to act as some kind of homing device for Clint so that he could come along and break him out of the Helicarrier. There were details that Natasha carefully omitted, Clint noting the holes in her story for later investigation, then Steve showed up, raising one eyebrow at Clint's presence until Natasha vouched for him, informing them that they were leaving, that Tony had figured out where Loki was headed and that they were going to stop him.

They were halfway to the Quinjet bay, when Steve dropped the bombshell.

"Did you know him?" He asked both of them, talking over his shoulder as they stalked through the corridors, and Clint drew his eyebrows together, confused about what the hell Captain America was on about. The fact that Captain America was leading him through the corridors of the Helicarrier like he knew his way around the place was a little disconcerting, but Agent Barton was nothing if not adaptable. He'd known about Steve Rogers being found in the ice up in the Arctic Circle- if Phil couldn't safely fanboy over his idol in his own home then there were some serious problems with their relationship - but having the man himself here, in the flesh, was seriously odd. Clint only knew about Captain America through Phil's lens, which was actually a pretty impressive collection of the 40's and 50's era Cap Collectibles, including a tin lunchbox and a hand-wound record player along with a red-white-and-blue pressing of The Star Spangled Man on a '45 that nobody else was allowed to touch, ever.

"Know who?" Clint asked, skipping slightly to catch up with Steve and so intent noticing the changes to the uniform that he knew Phil'd had a hand in, that he missed the warning look Natasha shot at him.

"Agent Coulson."

Clint stopped, dead, in the middle of the hallway, his left hand shooting instantly to touch his right shoulder, the spot under his uniform where there was a tattoo etched in lieu of a wedding band - a ring would have affected his grip.

Steve, of course, noticed this reaction and turned around, smiling but sad.

"He was a good man, a good soldier. What Loki did to him, it was horrible-"  
"What do you mean, was a good man?" Clint asked, placing the emphasis carefully.  
Steve's eyes widened slightly and his gaze flickered momentarily to Natasha, who shook her head slightly, and Clint didn't miss the movement this time.  
"Tasha, what happened?" he asked, turning on her and stepping into her space.  
Natasha didn't back down, allowing him to loom over her even as Steve stepped forward, one hand raised as if to pull Clint away. Natasha stopped him with a palm up in his direction, not breaking eye contact with the man practically stepping on her toes.  
"I don't know the details-"  
"Don't give me that, you know everything, Natasha. What. Happened."  
"Loki pushed his spear through Phil's chest."  
"..."  
"He's dead, Clint."

Clint took two steps back away from her, fists clenched, jaw tight. His nostrils flared slightly and again he touched the mark on his shoulder through his uniform, after a second or two he hooked his fingers through the sleeve of his vest so that he could tug it forward and slide his hand beneath the material, brushing skin on skin against the tattoo.

Natasha kept her distance, and Steve looked at him, curious but not stupid; he didn't enter the bubble Hawkeye had established around himself even as the archer closed his eyes and took five slow, deep breaths in a row, then opened his eyes again.

"Let's go get this bastard." He told Steve, releasing his uniform and looking Steve right in the eye, daring the man to question what had just happened.  
"Alright, Specialist. You can fly one of those things?" Steve asked, gesturing at the Quinjet visible in the bay to their left, and Clint didn't even bother with the smart-ass reply.  
"I was the second test pilot after Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes, I'd say we're safe."  
"Excellent. Let's get to New York."

The flight to Stark Tower had taken just on an hour, and in that time Clint had felt his brain attempt to turn itself inside-out at least a dozen times. He concentrated on not thinking about Phil, about the apparent fact that he was dead, instead keeping his hands on the controls, not once letting the autopilot engage, flying below where standard RADAR would pick them up, taking them out over the open Atlantic where he could help it, trying to minimize the amount of visibility of the Quinjet at ground level, it was a hard balance to strike. 

Once they were in New York, he allowed himself to get lost in combat mode, listening to Natsha's familiar dry sarcasm over the comms and rolling his eyes when Tony Stark called him 'Legolas' before giving him a lift to the best rooftop vantage point in the area.

He fired his arrows like a man possessed, using them as stabbing weapons when the alien-whatever-things (Chitauri? What the hell kind of name was that for an alien army?) got too close, and when he was down to his last one, using a trick that he knew Phil would tear strips off of him for if he ever witnessed it, selecting the grappling-hook arrowhead that was not designed to withstand this kind of G-Force and flinging himself off the rooftop, twisting in mid-air to shoot the hook back up to the edge of the building and crashing through the window three storeys down, missing the concrete divider by inches and rolling to a stop in the middle of a deserted office full of debris with a groan.

"Barton? What the hell was that?" He heard someone... Tony?... asking over the comms. He just groaned again and pushed himself semi-upright, gave his approximate location and waited for someone to tell him that they had won, lost or that the planet was about to explode.

He was out of arrows, he had glass cutting through his uniform, and the man he loved was dead.

He was done.


End file.
